Corryvreckan

The waters rumble and surge and the fearsome currents thrash;

a ferocious salty river pulls me ever closer to the thundering abyss.

Then I hear another voice ringing through the roaring water.

I listen to the voice of the sea and the wind’s quiet whisper.

And they show me a way, guide me safely through until the seas turn clear.

After sailing up from Edinburgh to Inverness and taking Kismet through the heart of Scotland via the Caledonian Canal, Helen had headed back to Edinburgh and I was sailing alone. A friend had invited me to attend the seafood festival in Tarbert on the Kintyre peninsula which was set to start five days hence, and to get there, I would have to sail through the fierce tides surrounding the Corryvreckan whirlpool by the Isle of Jura, and then the Crinan Canal, cutting through the top of the Kintyre peninsula.

Day 12: Loch Linnhe - Easdale | Distance: 32NM | Passage time: 8h.
Wind: F4 | Sea state: Smooth

It felt surreal waking up surrounded by the tall mountains and deep valleys of Loch Linnhe. There was not a breath of wind. I could tell from my bunk before even opening my eyes because the quiet was tangible. Normally there are little sounds and movements constantly on board: the slapping halyards and creaking rigging, the wind whooshing across the deck and the soft lapping of water along the hull. But that morning there was nothing.

Checking the forecast I saw the wind would pick up just as the tides were turning in my favour. Until then I could enjoy a slow morning: coffee and breakfast at anchor in view of this incredible landscape.

I did some writing over coffee and listened to music while cleaning up the boat, preparing for the next few days of traveling south towards Jura, Crinan and Tarbert.

I set sail in the early afternoon for Easdale. I’ve come to love sailing alone. The complete self-sufficiency and solitude is just scary enough to be thrilling, and successfully managing sails, tiller, and weather conditions is a deeply rewarding experience. Most importantly though, single-handed sailing gives you plenty of time to just exist. If I could give an unexpected gift to someone it would be that of the experience of sitting for quiet hours watching the movement of the waves as the landscape slowly moves past in the distance. There is no better feeling.

Kismet and I sailed past green hills and isles as Oban disappeared astern. The world felt so different here: everywhere I looked I saw nooks and valleys, sheltered bays and beaches, and tall mountains that adorned the horizon, fading into blue as they receded in the slight haze in the distance.

It was a warm and sunny day with a perfect breeze. I averaged 6 knots, Kismet’s maximum speed, almost the whole day before anchoring in a sheltered corner of Easdale. The sun set in ruby red behind me as I cooked dinner.

I realised I hadn’t seen anyone, spoken to anyone or done anything except sailing and living a simple life on the water all day. And somehow I felt completely content.

Day 13: Easdale - Crinan | Distance: 14NM | Passage time: 4h.
Wind: F2-3 | Sea state: Smooth

The next morning I woke up with one word spinning around my mind: Corryvreckan. The tides flowing south through the Sound of Luing and Jura are fierce and fast, and between Jura and the Isle of Scarba a standing wave and whirlpool form, creating incredibly dangerous conditions for a small boat. That’s where I would be sailing today: past the famous whirlpool to reach the beginning of Crinan Canal, the second canal of this voyage.

It was another slow morning of waiting for the tides to turn. I wouldn’t be able to make any progress against the tides in these waters, so timing it right was essential. As the tide turned after breakfast I set my sails and raised my anchor. The sun was out and a perfect light breeze carried me towards the tidal waters.

As I approached I could see the water bubbling as if it was a boiling witches’ cauldron. The strange water sent shivers down my spine — it seemed alive, or as if something huge was moving just beneath the surface. Kismet picked up speed as the fast flowing tides carried her, from 4 to over 10 knots. The tiller was occasionally knocked hard to port or starboard, as if something underneath the surface forced it to the side. Eddies and currents most likely, but doubts teetered at the edge of my mind. I understood ancient seafarers a little better then. Even though I knew exactly what caused the tides and the strange behaviour in the water, I was almost ready to believe in sea creatures and legends.

(Video shows the strange tides and effects as I sail towards Scarba and Jura)

I rode this tidal river past the craggy shores of Scarba and Jura. As I passed the gap where the Corryvreckan whirlpool lay in wait, I peered out to starboard and listened for its presence, but the wind drowned out any potential noise.

The tide and wind carried me quickly past, all the way to the entrance of the canal, and I dropped the sails and prepared the mooring lines for the single-handed locking in manoeuvre. Steering with one foot and lines in both hands I motored in, and threw the lines up to the lock keeper in one fluid motion. Success! I’d made it to the Crinan Canal.

After securing Kismet in the canal basin where I’d spend the night, I went for a stroll. Walking along the banks of the canal, surrounded by dense ancient forest seemed like a walk through time. Crinan forest is a temperate rainforest, rich in old oak and moss-covered tree trunks.

The air shifted as soon as I entered the forest, the heady scents of moss and lichen and damp earth replacing the salty sea air. It was a welcome change. I strolled through that forest for hours, letting the magical air carry me away through memories, back to the old Swedish forests of my childhood. Smells transport you through time and place in a kaleidoscope of memories rushing back like nothing else I know of. I had missed old forests.

Day 14-16. Crinan - Tarbert | Distance: 10+10NM | Passage time 6+2h.
Wind: F3-5 | Sea state: Smooth-Slight

The next day was a blur of locks and bridges. Going through canals single-handed requires all your effort and control, and by the time I arrived at the other end of the canal I was exhausted, having not had time to eat or drink, nor take a break through the 6 hours it took to navigate the canal. I slept well though, feeling accomplished and more competent at boat handling than ever before in my life.

Doing something until you feel competent at it is a remarkable thing. The feeling of confidence and security in the knowing itself can transform your outlook. Up until then I knew I could sail, but with close-quarters boat manoeuvres, I had always felt like I was making them up as I went along, hoping things would go well. But now I finally had the sense that I knew what I knew.

The next morning I woke up to howling winds and sheets of rain, but it was the day before the seafood festival and I was determined to make it to Tarbert, only 2 hours of sailing away.

(Video from the passage from an old note)

It turned out to be the two wettest hours of sailing yet, but as I sailed into Tarbert in the misty evening light I was elated. I had made it in time for the festival, and I was looking forward to taking a little break from sailing, and enjoying the festivities in the local village.

Thank you for reading! Please follow along on this journey to receive the next instalment: Alone at the End of the World: Rounding the Mull of Kintyre!

Read the previous part here:

The Great Glen

A deep murky loch, bordered by weary mountains.
In its dark depths, an ancient leviathan lies waiting.
I set off before the break of dawn, as the creature sleeps,
careful not to disturb her. I sail quietly, crouched down in my boat,
scared of what lurks in the black deep.

Day 7: Inverness-Loch Ness Distance: 10NM, Number of Locks: 7

The Caledonian Canal lay ahead of us now as we woke up on a sunny Thursday morning, just after the summer solstice. The canal cuts through the heart of the Scottish Highlands connecting Inverness with Fort William on the west coast, through Loch Ness, Loch Oich and Loch Lochy. 50 nautical miles, 29 locks and 11 swing bridges between us and the start of the West Coast adventure.

Loch Ness. The thought of sailing down the famous loch had been a defining image of this trip for me. During months of long, hard days in the yard I imagined what it would feel like to sail down the immense body of water, a deep valley, nestled in between eroded highland mountains. The last time I’d seen it was half my life ago. A different life, a different me, a person who didn’t know he would one day live in Scotland and be this close to sailing his own boat down the loch. I wouldn’t have had the imagination required to dream up the life I get to live.

As we motored under the fierce tides that run under Inverness’s Kessock bridge, I could see ahead to the Clachnaharry sea lock, the entrance of the canal and my stomach lurched. I was nervous. Entering the lock requires close quarters manoeuvring, managing mooring lines, throttle and tiller in amongst steep walls, and other boats all in a few seconds. It’s like advanced parallel parking. As I navigated into what felt like a large coffin, I cast a last glance out behind the lock and spotted a bright rainbow against the distant hills. A good omen – and my nerves eased a little. I motored slowly forward until we brushed up against the stonewall and the lockkeeper came out and helped us with the lines. Phew.

By the second lock things went even smoother, and we moored up to the marina beyond, finally in Inverness.

We had a busy day ahead. After a week of sailing up the coast we were low on all of our resources, and there wouldn’t be many better places to stock up than Inverness. We’d need lots of diesel for motoring the 50 miles through the canal, and we planned lavish meals for the summery eves that were forecast. We had a BBQ on board and I intended to make good use of it.

Living in a small space, we had quickly learned to manage our resources well, and we stored up on all our favourite foods, topped up fuel and water, and made sure we had what we’d need for a comfortable – even luxurious week on the canal.

In the late afternoon we made our way up five more locks before mooring up on a pontoon less than a mile from the banks of Loch Ness.

Helen and I fell asleep that night dreaming of Nessie and deep ancient lochs carved by ice and time.

Day 8: Loch Ness - Fort Augustus, Distance: 21NM, Number of Locks: 5

The next morning a light mist hovered over the canal, and the morning sun painted the world in rose gold. We set off early to beat strong forecast winds and motored down the twists and turns of the canal. Then suddenly it ended, and the landscape opened up into a vast expanse of water, nestled in between sloping hills and verdant trees. We’d made it to Loch Ness.

We put some appropriate bagpipe music on our speakers and settled in for the five hour sail down the loch. I’m a rational man of science, and obviously do not believe in Nessie, but when we were half way across, at the deepest point, on an overcast grey, misty day, and I peered into the black loch, over 200 metres deep, I couldn’t help but feel a tingle down my spine. Anything could hide down there.

Fort Augustus was crawling with tourists when we moored up at the other end of the loch. It was the middle of summer season, and by the time we were going through the locks after lunch a huge crowd was watching us. Every move of the tiller, every toss of the mooring line, every gesture I made felt scrutinised. I almost drove the boat into the wall, getting distracted. Luckily we made it through without embarrassing ourselves too badly.

Life on the canal was a real shift from life at sea. We were moored up in the middle of a highland town full of tourist buses and Nessie merch. Another world from the remote seaside towns we had spent the last week in. It felt more like driving a campervan through Scotland than it did sailing. I couldn’t help but reflect on time passing, having sailed past crumbling castles, seaside towns of former glory, and the eroding shadows of ancient mountains. We get such a short window in time to see one version of this world, all others lost to history, or existing as shapeless, future potential.

Days 9-10: Fort Augustus - Fort William, Distance: 24NM, Number of Locks: 6

Grassy slopes and small villages were replaced by tall evergreen trees, as we motored on down the canal the next day. The tall trees sheltered us from the world. Soon the canal imperceptibly widened into another loch, meandering and lush. It couldn’t have been more different from Loch Ness. Loch Oich was almost labyrinthine as it disappeared into nooks and shallow forested banks. It seemed as if we had entered a fairy tale as we sailed past moss covered sheds, old boats on the shore with reeds growing out of them, and ancient trees overhanging the shore. It reinforced the sense that this 200-year-old canal had seen so many more ages of the world than us, and there was something bittersweet about seeing old, dilapidated boats and cottages no longer fit for use.

Reaching Loch Oich, we had finally made it to the highest point of the canal. We had climbed through 14 locks to get here, reaching 32 metres above sea level. Kismet had probably never been higher up and further from the sea than this. And as we got to the end of the loch we started feeling the call of the west coast, started feeling excited and impatient to make it to the other end. Perhaps it was Kismet’s impatience I felt. Finally descending locks felt faster somehow, like we were sailing downhill. It felt like we were almost there.

We spent a night on the banks of Loch Lochy, before motoring through into another blustery headwind, and we reached Banavie and the top of Neptune’s staircase by the early afternoon. It’s the UK’s longest staircase lock, 8 locks descending over 20 metres, and the last hurdle before reaching the Corpach sea locks that would take us out into Loch Linnhe, and to the west coast.

That night we celebrated, treating ourselves to a meal in the local pub.

As we walked down the canal we were stopped at the railway by the Jacobite, the old steam train made famous in Harry Potter. A machine of another age, which seemed fitting given our lives on this voyage, in some sense feeling timeless, like we also existed in a different era of slow travel closer to nature.

We were not only celebrating our first two weeks of sailing, and reaching the end of the Caledonian Canal, but also having a last dinner together before Helen would head back to Edinburgh for a while, and I’d be sailing alone.

Day 11: Fort William - Loch Linnhe, Distance: 12NM, Number of Locks: 11

The next morning we woke up early and made it down Neptune’s staircase in record time. Helen caught the train to Edinburgh and I kept sailing, alone in Kismet for the first time on this voyage. It felt quiet and empty, but I was excited to sail single handed in this part of Scotland.

I managed to navigate the last two locks with the help of the lockkeeper. After almost 30 locks I had it down to muscle memory. And as the last gates opened and I motored out of the lock, I could smell the unmistakable scent of the sea again. I had missed it after a week in fresh water. Kismet seemed eager to go.

I motored down Loch Linnhe and dropped anchor in a sheltered bay, in view of Ben Nevis and the peaks and valleys of a different world. It felt like something new was beginning. I couldn’t wait to keep exploring.

The third instalment:

Oak and Salt in Crinan [Week 3]

will be published in two weeks time, on Saturday 31 October. Please subscribe to receive future essays right to your inbox and to support my writing.

Fair winds,

Alex

Why do two scientists independently turn to nature and start to listen to a more intuitive call from the wild?

Suravi and I have recently been connecting over the sense of being drawn to nature, and seeking a deeper connection to the world. For me it is the way I’ve been drawn in by the sea, for Suravi it’s the deep connection to the trails of the African bush.

For both of us, being out there is like learning a new language. It’s felt strangely familiar and yet completely new. But as the vocabulary increases with experience and by paying deep attention, our understanding of the world around us deepens.

We have learned to read the landscapes around us; I have learned to listen to the wind and tides when at sea, and understand how those forces flow; Suravi has learned to listen to the quiet trails under trees, to understand where the animals roam or hide, and to read the landscapes and understand how the animals interact. And as this natural language grows more intuitive, it seems to change how we relate to ourselves as part of the world.

We want to explore this topic of connection and how we both got to where we are in a live fireside chat here on Substack, to which you are warmly invited!

Both of us come from scientific backgrounds which makes it all the more curious that we have found this intuitive way of engaging with the world.

In this live chat we will explore our individual experiences of finding ourselves drawn to different parts of the natural world.

If exploring questions of deep connection, of learning the language of the natural world, and of becoming more in tune with nature resonates please join us for this discussion!

We would love to hear your stories of connection to nature as well:

What part of the natural world calls to you most? Whether it’s the sea, mountains, ancient forests, or something closer to home, share your thoughts in the comments below!

Fair winds,

Alexander and Suravi

Suravi writes deeply human stories from her perspective both as a surgeon and her experience tracking wild animals in the African bush.
Her publication Tracks and Sutures is the meeting place between those worlds. There, you’ll find stories that inspire a fierce awe at what it means to be alive.

Please follow her writing by subscribing below!

Tracks & Sutures

Stories from the wilderness, Medicine, & building our best lives.

By Suravi Chatterjee-Woolman

The best way to support Soulfaring is by subscribing below to receive future posts, and if possible, by joining the crew as a paid subscriber. Thank you for reading!

This is part one of a 12-part series detailing the log of my sail around Scotland in 2025. For details on the voyage and what to expect in future essays, read the announcement post here. Please subscribe to Soulfaring to receive future essays and to support my writing.

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Day 1: Edinburgh-Arbroath Distance: 50NM, Passage time 12h.
Wind: F2-3, Sea state: Smooth

The air felt different on the morning we were about to set sail for Inverness and the West Coast. After a long cold winter in the yard, over six months of work restoring this 50 year-old sailboat, we were finally ready to set off. The chill morning air and the hesitant sun seemed urgent, impatient. Me and my partner Helen had woken up just after dawn to get Kismet ready for the first day of what I hoped would be months of sailing. Where we would go we didn’t know. We just knew we needed to go.

But how do you get ready for such a big trip in so small a ship? I had sailed several thousand nautical miles as crew on other boats, but never skippered my own for more than a day sail. Helen had not sailed at all. So we did our best to prep for the day’s sailing. I looked over the engine one last time, and checked the forecast and passage plan, while Helen refilled the water tanks, and stowed all our food and gear. We were planning a sail out of the Firth of Forth to a small seaside town northeast of St Andrews, called Arbroath. And there we’d see. Something could break (most of the boat was my own handiwork, hopefully impeccably done, but who knew?) and that could force us to abandon the trip. She is an old boat, and things always break on old boats.

I began sensing the quiet anticipation of the start of a grand adventure as we finalised the last few things. I fired up the engine I’d finished rebuilding just weeks prior; its steady beat mirrored my own heart. As we slipped the mooring lines and said goodbye to the little harbour along the banks of Edinburgh and motored out onto a glassy calm sea something inside immediately shifted. Some invisible weight lifted as we passed an invisible portal into our new life. We were finally on our way. No more planning, no more prep, just pure sailing, towards the horizon as far as this little ship would take us. As Edinburgh disappeared behind us and the coastal towns of Fife passed to port, we settled in for a long day at sea.

Sailing is a slow form of travel. The 50-mile passage to Arbroath is 12 hours at Kismet’s average pace (4-5 knots). I kept my eyes on our course, the sails, the wind forecast, the charts and stole a glance out across the blue water as often as I could, getting lost in the movement of gently rippling waves, lazily swimming puffins and diving gannets. Harbour porpoises and seals curiously peered at us as we passed the rocky islands of the Forth on our way towards the North Sea. It was like a spell had been cast on me; I sailed through our first day in a state of bliss, fully immersed in wind and sea.

By 7 in the evening we moored up in Arbroath. Kismet’s very first harbour outside of Edinburgh. I imagined Kismet to be as excited about the trip as Helen and I. We were finally on our way.

Days 2-3 Arbroath-Peterhead, Distance: 70 NM
Passage time 15h over 2 days.
Wind: F2-3, Sea state: Slight to Moderate

The North Sea has a reputation for dangerous conditions and large seas in foul weather, so I kept a keen eye on the forecast, looking at our next two days of sailing up to Peterhead. Luckily the forecast promised sun and gentle winds. The North Sea was flat and docile as we set off from Arbroath the next day, after a slow morning ashore waiting for the tides to turn north. The tidal conveyor carried us at about 1 knot, the moon pulling us ever northward. Helen quickly settled into it, knitting in the sun as I checked sails and rigging, and started experimenting with flying our spinnaker in the light winds.

The spinnaker is a great lightweight, colourful balloon of a sail, perfect for downwind sailing, but I had never learned to fly Kismet’s. I started wrangling the mass of canvas and lines to set it all up, and after about an hour of trial and error and a lot of swearing I had it all rigged and ready. I hoisted this big billowy sail and felt the surge of speed as it filled with wind. Sweating and blissful, it was a moment of pure victory. I sat for a moment in the shade under the great canvas at the bow of Kismet, looking out at the expanse of the North Sea to starboard and the verdant coast of Scotland to port. I felt a longing to never stop sailing, never stop moving, and to stay in that moment forever – a deeply considered life.

When we approached Stonehaven, a huge pod of bottlenose dolphins joined us, swimming at Kismet’s bow, granting us guidance and support after a long day of sailing on the open sea. Their sleek forms moved through the waves, eyes occasionally peering up at us, seemingly seeking connection. We were there together with these dolphins, living out on the water. It made us forget the rest of the world for a moment. It was Helen’s first time seeing dolphins, and between the glorious spinnaker sailing and the dolphins I could sense that she was finally starting to share my love for sailing.

We spent a long night against the pier in Stonehaven, another small fishing village, and woke up in the densest fog I had ever seen. We missed the turn of the tide and set off late as the fog cleared mid-afternoon. We sailed into Peterhead after a long slog of a day against tide and wind, but apart from boredom, the sail went well. We’d sailed our first 100 nautical miles, and were getting used to the rhythm of life at sea.

Days 4-6 Peterhead-Inverness, Distance: 105 NM,
Passage time 26h over 2 days.
Wind: F2-F4, Sea state: Moderate then Slight later

A gale blew through the next day and we stayed cosy on board, safely moored up in Peterhead. It’s remarkable how quickly you get used to a tiny living space. The saloon is as small as a camping van, with a cooker and table, two berths and not enough room to stand. And yet we were comfortable reading inside, cooking up delicious lunch and dinner on the two-burner alcohol stove, and planning the final passage to Inverness. A simple life, but fully sufficient.

We were finally able to sail again in the early morning, 36 hours after arriving, as the winds eased and the tide turned. We set sail at 1am hoping to make Inverness in about 24h.

The darkness was tangible, velvety deep and otherworldly, as we sailed into the unknown and the harbour lights disappeared behind us. I took the first watch and Helen went below to sleep. As the hours passed I relied on my other senses for navigation and safety. Immersed in darkness, with only the compass to steer by, the elements became an extension of my mind. I sensed the wind as it shifted and lulled and adjusted the sails when needed. I felt the constant rolling waves as they carried us along, and I listened to the sea and the wind and the waves, letting them lull me into a trance. When the sun finally rose above the horizon I was content and knackered, at the verge of hallucinating, yet deeply at peace. Helen took the helm as I went down below to sleep, dreaming of spectres and creatures in the dark, just out of view.

After a short pitstop in Lossiemouth to rest up we sailed the final miles to Inverness. Now surrounded by hills and mountains we started getting excited for the next part of this journey, envisioning what it might be like sailing through the Caledonian Canal and reaching the West Coast. As we sailed down the Moray Firth, approaching Inverness, we were surrounded by a dozen dolphins playing in the strong tidal currents. And just as we looked away from their playful, smiling eyes we saw the Kessock bridge of Inverness in the distance. We’d made it. What will the Caledonian Canal have in store for us?

Total trip log: 225 Nautical Miles

“I continue [sailing] because I am happy at sea, and perhaps also to save my soul.”

—Bernard Moitessier

Join me for a sail around Scotland aboard Kismet

This week a year ago I completed a three-month sail around Scotland, returning to Edinburgh a different person in many ways. A year later I’ve had the chance to reflect and write a lot, and my appreciation and wonder at this whole experience has grown exponentially. I’m in awe of the natural wonder of the experience, all the amazing places in Scotland that we got to visit, from the Caledonian Canal to Kintyre, Islay and Mull to Skye and the Outer Hebrides, and further north still past Cape Wrath and the Pentland Firth. Along the way we were accompanied by dolphins, whales, puffins and gannets, immersed in the reality of wind and waves.

I am currently finishing my full narrative memoir but I don’t want to wait that long to share more of the experiences we enjoyed out at sea with all of you. I have been thinking about writing this series for a while, but wasn’t sure when the right time would be.

However, I recently posted a note sharing the route I sailed as I circumnavigated Scotland and it’s generated a lot of interest and questions.

The note in question in case you missed it:

So now seems like the perfect time to share the complete logbook of my circumnavigation of Scotland in Kismet, my 23ft sloop.

I will bring you along onto the deck of Kismet and the wild shores of Scotland through images and words, showing you the beautiful and epic scale of all of it. I’ll share details and pictures of the routes and places and write short vignettes and impressions of all the varied experiences!

I will publish twelve entries each covering roughly a week of the voyage. You can look forward to the following logbook entries every other week through autumn and winter, bringing you some wonderful summer seafaring when the nights get cold and dark again.

Please consider subscribing to support this series and to get each new part to your inbox, and share and restack to help others who might be interested find it.

Subscribe now

As always, this series will remain 100% free, available to everyone, no paywalls.

Join me in The Captain’s Quarters

For those who want access to additional behind-the-scenes footage and videos of the passages, paid subscribers (£4/month or £35/year) will have access to The Captain’s Quarters Subscriber Chat along with several other perks and gifts:

• The Soulfaring welcome pack: A free set of physical Soulfaring postcards, plus a 50% discount across the Etsy print shop.

• The Captain’s Quarters vault: Additional pictures and videos from life aboard Kismet sailing the beautiful shores of Scotland for all the upcoming instalments in this series.

• Book club access: Full access to discussions in the Forgotten Voices seasonal book club along with free e-books (4 per year).

• A place in the story: Your name in the acknowledgements of my upcoming memoir.

Chapter I - Braving the North Sea: Edinburgh-Inverness, is available now! These chapters will alternate with my other original essays, stories, poems and book club posts.

If you're excited for this voyage, let me know by liking this post and dropping a comment below: Which chapter are you looking forward to the most?

Fair winds,

Alexander

The best way to support Soulfaring is by subscribing below to receive future posts. Thank you for reading!

I’ve always longed for a sense of immersion in the world. Sailing along the ancient coast of Scotland gives me glimpses of it, but it doesn’t always feel like enough. These two linked movements come from that deep desire to step into the world and become part of it.

Part I: Water

I want to be every water drop condensing in every cloud,
refracting kaleidoscopic sunbeams,

I want to fall down to earth in view of the heavens, drifting
down every mountain into every stream.

I want to flow with every river through every valley, carving
foundational rock, washing earth to the sea.

I want to be every condensed droplet on every leaf of every tree, dripping
into dappled sunlight on soft earth.

I want to be every molecule in every wave
upon the sea where dolphins leap and whales dive deep.

I want to be the splash of every diving gannet, moving
in the deep blue searching, living.

I want to move across the earth in ebbs and flows feeling
the pull of the moon from the cosmos,

part of all living things as we move together,
living water on the earth.

I want to cycle on eternally, until I evaporate and rejoin the grand universe,
beyond blue horizons.

Part II: Earth

I want to be the earth,
feel the movement of tectonic plates.
Muscles over bone.

Be every mineral in rocks that stand tall.
Observing aeons pass by.

I want to be every pebble on every beach
longing to return to the clouds.
Every weatherworn cliff, eroding.

I want to be the soil where forests grow.
Every glacial erratic, dropped by ancient ice.
I want to be the lava flowing out to sea
crystallising into hexagonal basalt
or ink-black obsidian, sharp and jagged.

I want to be the young earth,
witnessing new life emerge.
Then the old earth as the last
remnants of life fade away.

I want to see it all,
I want to feel it all,
I want the world and all that it holds.

And when I have experienced all the facets of this world,
then I will finally rest, as I rejoin it all.

Thank you for reading! I started this substack to share the beauty and the wonder of the natural world as I see it. If these lines resonated with you, hitting the Restack button is the single kindest way to help new readers find this sanctuary! And if you’d like to support this ongoing voyage, consider becoming a paid subscriber.

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Fair winds,

Alexander

Forgotten Voices

There is a sense of vertigo in thinking about people who lived full lives with uncountable thoughts, impressions and ideas. Who suffered, and laughed and had entire lives that are now long lost, reclaimed by the earth. But some of them remain through what they left behind in ink. In those words they left little fragments of their souls for us to connect with. That is what I want this Forgotten Voices series to be about.

It’s about lives lived in a world that was altogether different from ours. Their voices used to shift the air and delight their friends, yet we know almost nothing of their daily existence except for what was written down. And when I read these texts – and really imagine the human behind the pen – I stand in awe at how similar we all are. It’s as if we are speaking to each other across time, sharing familiar stories. I see myself and my story in their words. Nothing fundamental about the human spirit has changed, and there is a weird sense of comfort in that. It is bittersweet, knowing that things will end. They struggled with the same things we did, and drew delight from nature and the world like we do. And now they are dead and we are here, retracing their steps, going through the same struggles and questions and doubts. What a strange world this is, when you really think about it.

By reading their words once again, I feel like I can connect with minds centuries gone. I can see the world through their eyes briefly, and it helps cast new light on how I look at my own life. And I hope it can do the same for you.

In this first Forgotten Voices instalment I want to share a curated excerpt from Celia Thaxter’s Among the Isles of Shoals. It’s a familiar story despite its age – Celia writes beautifully about retreating to a rock in the Atlantic to learn how to hear her own thoughts, which is at the essence of Soulfaring. I hope you enjoy being transported in time and hearing her lyrical words.

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Among the Isles of Shoals – Celia Thaxter

The eternal sound of the sea on every side has a tendency to wear away the edge of human thought and perception; sharp outlines become blurred and softened like a sketch in charcoal; nothing appeals to the mind with the same distinctness as on the mainland, amid the rush and stir of people and things, and the excitements of social life.

Sailing out from Portsmouth Harbor with a fair wind from the northwest, the Isles of Shoals lie straight before you, nine miles away,—ill-defined and cloudy shapes, faintly discernible in the distance.

Swept by every wind that blows, and beaten by the bitter brine for unknown ages, well may the Isles of Shoals be barren, bleak, and bare. At first sight nothing can be more rough and inhospitable than they appear. The incessant influences of wind and sun, rain, snow, frost, and spray, have so bleached the tops of the rocks, that they look hoary as if with age, though in the summer-time a gracious greenness of vegetation breaks here and there the stern outlines, and softens somewhat their rugged aspect.

Yet so forbidding are their shores, it seems scarcely worth while to land upon them,—mere heaps of tumbling granite in the wide and lonely sea,—when all the smiling, “sapphire-spangled marriage-ring of the land” lies ready to woo the voyager back again, and welcome his returning prow with pleasant sights and sounds and scents that the wild wastes of water never know.

But to the human creature who has eyes that will see and ears that will hear, nature appeals with such a novel charm, that the luxurious beauty of the land is half forgotten before one is aware. Its sweet gardens, full of color and perfume, its rich woods and softly swelling hills, its placid waters, and fields and flowery meadows, are no longer dear and desirable; for the wonderful sound of the sea dulls the memory of all past impressions, and seems to fulfil and satisfy all present needs. Landing for the first time, the stranger is struck only by the sadness of the place,—the vast loneliness; for there are not even trees to whisper with familiar voices,—nothing but sky and sea and rocks. But the very wildness and desolation reveal a strange beauty to him. Let him wait till evening comes,

“With sunset purple soothing all the waste,”

and he will find himself slowly succumbing to the subtile charm of that sea atmosphere. He sleeps with all the waves of the Atlantic murmuring in his ears, and wakes to the freshness of a summer morning; and it seems as if morning were made for the first time.

For the world is like a new-blown rose, and in the heart of it he stands, with only the caressing music of the water to break the utter silence, unless, perhaps, a song-sparrow pours out its blissful warble like an embodied joy. The sea is rosy, and the sky; the line of land is radiant; the scattered sails glow with the delicious color that touches so tenderly the bare, bleak rocks. These are lovelier than sky or sea or distant sails, or graceful gulls’ wings reddened with the dawn; nothing takes color so beautifully as the bleached granite; the shadows are delicate, and the fine, hard outlines are glorified and softened beneath the fresh first blush of sunrise. All things are speckless and spotless; there is no dust, no noise, nothing but peace in the sweet air and on the quiet sea.

The day goes on; the rose changes to mellow gold, the gold to clear, white daylight, and the sea is sparkling again. A breeze ripples the surface, and wherever it touches the color deepens. A seine-boat passes, with the tawny net heaped in the stern, and the scarlet shirts of the rowers brilliant against the blue. Pleasantly their voices come across the water, breaking the stillness.

The fishing-boats steal to and fro, silent, with glittering sails; the gulls wheel lazily; the far-off coasters glide rapidly along the horizon; the mirage steals down the coast-line, and seems to remove it leagues away. And what if it were to slip down the slope of the world and disappear entirely? You think, in a half-dream, you would not care. Many troubles, cares, perplexities, vexations, lurk behind that far, faint line for you. Why should you be bothered any more?

“Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.”

And so the waves, with their lulling murmur, do their work, and you are soothed into repose and transient forgetfulness.

The Forgotten Voices Print Editions & Book Club

The idea behind Forgotten Voices is to share my love for connecting across time with writers who put their souls into their writing, and shared their observations of the world, but have since been mostly forgotten. I will be sharing four Forgotten Voices essays a year – one per season – starting today with this Autumn edition!

For those who want to dig deeper and discuss these texts with myself and others, I am inviting you to a community book club as well as releasing physical and e-book editions of every featured book that I personally typeset and design, starting with Celia Thaxter’s Among the Isles of Shoals.

• Free Subscribers: Receive every seasonal Forgotten Voices essay and can join the conversation in the post comments.

• Paid Subscribers: Receive a free e-book version, full access to our dedicated seasonal book club discussions (our first gathering will be in early December) and can claim hand-typeset physical editions at printing+shipping cost (~£9).

• Single Physical/E-book Copies: Anyone who purchases a standalone limited edition from SoulfaringStudio (~£18) or the e-book (~£8) will also be invited to that season’s book club discussion. (Prices to be confirmed shortly.)

The next Forgotten Voices Winter Edition will launch at the start of the new year, featuring the story of a London clerk who in 1909 quit his desk on a sudden impulse to cross the Atlantic on a tramp steamer, and fell in love with the incredible biodiversity in the South American jungle.

The oppressive August heat bears down on me as I walk through the festival crowds.   I make my way through throngs of people down busy streets, head down, marching. Sirens echo between the buildings, down the streets and alleys, between the buildings. loud cars drive past. The heat weighs me down and the fumes billow and churn I'm choking         in                 sweat              asphalt             road dust            noise. Voices rise          to a din and           a hum        a wave of sound        a current of words. Sharp laughter bubbles and pops, as chattering couples move past, oblivious. I'm in a current of people, an avalanche of sound, clamour, ruckus, clang, honk, wail. 
It's Edinburgh during Fringe. 

                                                                                                          I must go down to the sea I think. 
Escape                                                                            Escape the crowds and noise.

Escape to sea 

I must escape down to the sea. 

I 
make
a    plan:
escape to sea
and leave it all behind. 
the crowded town of smog and 
steel for wilder shores alone. For salty  
spray upon my lips instead of swears and wailing
Then seaward bound by foot and train I travel cross the lands

green miles drift by through rainswept slopes and valleys

With every mile the peace descends through 

rhythmic railroad movements. As hills

drift by and seas approach

I lighten.

Ah


the horizon lies where sea and heaven meet—faint alluring blue of peace and promise 

the wind rustles reeds ashore
                                                                                          while hissing waves roll in 

                          gannets grace the skies                             under
                                                                                                                steel grey clouds

over cobalt water                                                                                                


                         silhouetted rocks    
                                                                                                                         
                                                                                              gently warmed by sun


              crying gulls


                                    and                                                                        scent of salt and sand


as bewinged boats roam free across the waves            



                                  feeling the serenity of the sea and the wild horizon


                                                                    i sail away.

Thank you for being here and reading this experimental essay. Due to the growing influence of AI on writing I wanted to write something that incorporates the visual shape on the page, cadence and non-linear sensory structure to create something impressionistic and undeniably human.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the style and its effect as you were reading in the comments below.

Note: If you read it on a phone screen, the text partially adapts, but some of the deliberate spacing and structure is lost. If you get a chance, consider reading it again in a browser (using this link) to experience the intended effect.

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You can also find photographic prints and postcards inspired by these journeys in the Soulfaring Etsy Shop.

Last week I joined a sailing delivery of a yacht with a broken engine. For three days we sailed her non-stop from the Isle of Skye to her home port in the south of Scotland. Offshore sailing is demanding and rewarding in equal measure, but this also means I haven’t had much time to write.

So in this weeks slightly delayed essay I instead want to explore photos of dolphins taken during that trip. We were lucky to encounter a large pod of common dolphins before sunset on our first day of sailing. The light was just perfect, and they stayed with us for almost an hour.

Their joy in playing and jumping and surfing down waves is always a joy to witness. With these pictures I was really intrigued by the almost impressionistic qualities of refracted light as the dolphins swam under the surface, caught in the setting sun, and as they jumped and broke the thin film of surface tension when coming up for breaths.

They almost look like stained glass or classic paintings at times. I hope you enjoy.

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Stained Glass Dolphins

Hinted at, just below the surface

Breaking through for air

Effortlessly slicing through the water

Leaping in the setting sun

Always joyful and curious, trying to catch waves

It was an indescribable experience seeing these dolphins join us as we sailed. I hope these pictures bring you as much joy as they brought me.

Which shot was your favourite out of the series? I’d love to know in the comments below!

Fair winds,

Alexander

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You can also support Soulfaring through my new Etsy shop where I create photographic prints, postcards and other things inspired by my sailing, writing and photography.

https://soulfaringstudio.etsy.com/

What a transformation it has been. I truly love the creative work, and the community forming here. Thank you from the bottom of my soul to everyone who has joined, who is supporting Soulfaring and my journey toward getting my stories published, and who reads what I publish every day.

As I said a month ago, writing here has done something to my soul that I can’t quite explain. For the first time, I feel like I am exactly where I want to be.

Reality catching up

But so far this is not really sustainable. However much I want to pretend otherwise, money is running out, and I have yet to get an agent and get closer to publishing my memoir.

The question on my mind now is whether it could be possible to make this work long term? I have to admit I am scared of the prospect of returning to a corporate career, worried burnout will return and that I will feel my soul withering away again.

I’m of course not expecting to be able to be a full-time writer/photographer in such a short time, but I’m enjoying building something little of my own that will hopefully grow over time, and I want to make the most of this opportunity. To go all in and try something for real, whether it fails or not, so I at least can say I gave it a shot.

For so many years writing has seemed like a pipe dream, a cute idea but “come on, get a real job and write in your spare time”. But I do find that life tends to get away from you and one day you look back and wonder why you never did write the thing you had dreamt of. But I am doing it now, I am writing and through your generosity I am making a bit of money doing it.

So now my life is a balancing act in a different way from ever before. I am fully in charge and fully to blame, trying to decide what and when to write, what inspires me at any given moment, and build a creative routine, and crucially, trying to make some money doing it.

It’s so different from the clear corporate trajectory I knew. Things look more uncertain. But I am happier than I have ever been, and truly enjoy how connected writing and photography are making me. I get to build something deeply meaningful that feels honest, and soulful, and I get to spend my time close to nature and the elements.

Making creativity sustainable long-term

So where is this going?

The last few weeks I have been working on bringing together the beauty I get from viewing the world through a lens – capturing the world as I see it – and the reframing perspective I get from sailing and immersing myself in the world.

It seemed natural to combine photo and text into art prints. It’s been another incredibly educational experience setting up a little Etsy shop, designing prints and finding a shop to print etc. For the first time in my life I feel like I am building a little creative business.

Today I’m officially launching SoulfaringStudio on Etsy. I’m incredibly excited and also very nervous.

I have added postcards and prints (featured throughout this post) so far, available with and without the text, and have a vision of eventually expanding it into self-publishing some of my writing as well.

It would help immensely if you checked it out and followed the store for updates on future prints and publications.

Launch day & subscriber perks

So to celebrate this milestone for myself and Soulfaring, and to say thank you to all of you, here is a link to 30% off everything at the newly launched store.

https://soulfaringstudio.etsy.com?coupon=LAUNCH30

Additionally all current and future paid subscribers will receive an unlimited link to 50% off the entire shop (value up to £19 per item) and a free set of postcard prints I’ve just put together including a handwritten thank you card (value £10) as a thank you for your incredibly generous support.

So whether you join for a monthly £4 subscription or an annual £35 you’ll have some thank you gifts coming your way!

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I would love to hear from those of you who have done this before, any tips and tricks for a complete beginner?

And if anyone has something they’d love to see prints of or collaboration ideas, I’d love to hear suggestions. I’d happily add custom prints by request based on photos I’ve published on Soulfaring before.

All the artwork is printed locally and delivered for free anywhere in the world!

Thank you again for your support of Soulfaring. The greatest help you can provide is to join as a free or paid subscriber and to share any of my posts that resonate with you so that others can have the opportunity to find and connect with it.

Fair winds and following seas to all of you,

Alexander

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We cruised from Mallaig around the Isle of Skye and the Small Isles on the Scottish West Coast. It’s a remote part of Scotland, where phones, technology, and city life were rapidly forgotten, and we instead became immersed in nature in secluded anchorages, surrounded by flora and fauna.

Every day, we explored coastal forests and beaches to see what we could gather, guided by local foraging expert Mark Williams (author of The Coastal Forager). Because I’ve been off-grid, this week’s post is a short visual journey through the iconic landscapes, wildlife, and textures of the Inner Hebrides.

During this trip I found myself really exploring the colours and textures of Scotland’s shorelines, and tried to capture their various aspects with my old camera. Something about the rocky, seaweed-strewn shores and the faded hilly backdrops is so iconic.

During our walks I tried in particular to not only look at the big vistas and dramatic landscapes, but to also notice the tiny details and little moments of beauty that happen everywhere around us.

The sailing between the Isle of Eigg, Isle of Skye and the mainland shore this far north has its own iconic beauty. It’s often overcast, or even rainy, with spells of sunlight barely breaking through, making the light always variable and ethereal.

I had no idea of the wealth of things you can forage and eat along the British shores. So much to learn and try, and thanks to Mark we got to enjoy some incredible foraged recipes.

The wildlife around these parts is really something special. One of the most common things to see are seals, and though we always see them, I never get tired of it. I think seals know how to enjoy simple things in life. They are such beautiful, curious creatures.

Working aboard Merlin for a week and getting to return to West Coast sailing for the first time since my circumnavigation of Scotland last year was magical. I have really missed the unique landscapes and getting to immerse myself in sailing there again has been a well-needed break.

Thank you for reading and being here. Next week I’ll return to my more typical essay posts. Please consider subscribing if you are new here! It really helps support my writing and sailing journey.

Fair winds!

But over the last year of sailing and writing my memoir – and in particular the last three months of writing essays and notes here on Substack – I find my mind clearing. Ideas are crystallising, given shape by the creative wealth that exists here – and through the discussions with all of you who read my writing.

So in this instance I will make an exception. If you permit me, I would like to distil thoughts and ideas from the last three months of essays and notes into a few simple lessons for my own life, based on reflections from the last 20 years. It’s about the day-to-day business of living. After all, how we live our days is how we live our lives.

There is nothing new or revolutionary in these simple ideas, they are things we are told over and over again throughout life. But to me, it is in the reframing and contextualising that they gain value. Through concrete context I can understand what they mean within my own lived experience, and that is of immense value.

So here is a letter to my future self, to return to in case of despair. I know there will be future times of darkness where everything gets muddled up. Perhaps I will burn out or become depressed again. I hope these thoughts can provide some solace then.

Dear future Alex,

Life is fragile.

Memento mori. Remember that you will die. You get a short flicker of time to experience all there is. You are alive on this coalescence of space dust, alongside the infinite wealth and beauty of the plants and creatures that inhabit it.

If you somehow forget, try to recall what you once knew out on the Scottish seas: that life is brief and fragile and sublime. That perspective was one of the prime catalysts leading you to quitting your job and setting sail, and a perspective that has grown deeper roots through that voyage, and through writing. Alone at sea, carried by wind and waves alongside gannets and dolphins, the entire scope of life seemed to exist in single moments. You were everything you needed to be and could be then.

Remember this quote, that sends echoes through your soul:

“I don’t want to live the wrong life and then die.”

—from Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel.

Pay attention with all your senses

Through sailing and writing you have learned to pay attention to nature all around you, wherever you are. Return to that if you are ever lost. Pay attention to the intermingling tapestry of scents: the salt of the sea, the damp earth and meadow flowers.

Listen to the layered sounds of wind, movement, and life wherever you go. The rhythm of splashing waves and the susurrus of wind across sails soothed you to blissful sleep at sea; let it soothe you now.

And remember to look up, pay attention to both the large and the small: a splash of colour, beams of light through a canopy, an iridescent flower or the milky way across a cloudless night sky.

Appreciate the movement and grace of living creatures all around, birds, insects, mammals, and fish. Appreciate the little things that make you appreciate your day alive in this world. Don’t forget the joy it brings you.

Seek a sense of belonging

Don’t forget the warmth and value you have found in gaining a sense of belonging over the last few years. Belonging in the world, in your community, in your own mind.

It’s through appreciating the fabric of the universe that underlies existence that you found it; the cycles of water and minerals flowing from mountains; the sun-energy and nutrients that pass through us temporarily, providing the literal building blocks for all life on earth. It’s also in the way you engage with your surroundings by immersing yourself in wind, earth and water.

But don’t forget there is belonging in community and the people in your life, through sailing, writing and your friends and family. Through belonging we all become part of the same fabric.

Existing is enough

Since we are all part of the same mesh, fuelled by the same sun, made of the same cosmic dust, all we can do is exist, and by existing we are enough. There is no need to prove your worth to the universe. You are the universe. Do the gannets, dolphins or pufflings worry about meaning or purpose? They exist, and in existing they belong to earth and all there is. And so do we. Don’t wear yourself down to earn the approval of others in the hope that your existence will mean more.

You, existing, already means everything.

Live with humility, kindness and gratitude

So don’t you see that you are a facet of a crystal to which all things belong? All different, part of one whole. Remember that all living things are an extension of yourself. Through sailing it became intuitive, seeing the birds all around, and the dolphins following Kismet along. You were there, part of it all, but the same. And it fostered a sense of humility and gratitude: to feel the same, part mineral, part animal, part consciousness as all living things are.

Kindness follows. Kindness towards yourself and all the world. It is the only thing that makes sense. Within that kindness lives the help we extend to others – to all living things. Through helping and showing kindness to others, you help and are kind to yourself. And give yourself permission to ask for help and receive the kindness extended by others. After all, we are all Soulfarers.

Immerse yourself in life

Enjoy this one rare life. Immerse yourself in it, experience the world around you. Try new things. Do hard things for the challenge and enjoyment of learning. In the midst of burnout and depression, you lost your sense of wonder and desire to do things. But as you started slowly doing hard things again – quitting your job, rebuilding a diesel engine, restoring a boat, setting sail around Scotland, and writing your memoir – you found that you gained perspective and joy. Not in every moment, but cumulatively over time, if you do them because they seem worthwhile to you.

There is so much to see and experience. The world is abundant in beauty, despite all the despair and ugliness. Remember to let yourself experience it.

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I hope it resonates.

In memory of a fawn, dead.

I saw you one spring morning, taking your first unsteady steps.
Dappled light fell on dappled spots, blending you in.
Perhaps that is why they didn’t see you?
Your mother, the doe, thought you safe, hidden in the grass. 
I did too.

I observed your curious gaze all day; your day in the sun.
How strange and wondrous the world must have seemed to you. 
The singing birds and vibrant butterflies against blue skies, 
the wind-rustled leaves on trees,
the sparkling water tumbling down the creek.
A corner of a field was your universe.

Then the sound of a rattling engine shook the dew-heavy, evening air.
Steel blades through tall grass. They didn’t see you.
Now you’re dead, and I mourn the loss of a fawn,
who had a mere day to live in this rare world. 
One day on Earth; your whole life.

You still live in my mind, little fawn;
I will live for you the best I can,
feel the sun you no longer feel,
breathe in the scent of damp earth and meadow flowers.
I’ll look up at the stars at night and remember you were here.

I’m sorry.

This is unfortunately a real tragedy I witnessed, and more common than I knew. As humans we accidentally kill many wild animals, not only through traffic but also through farming and even in managing our own lawns and gardens. Luckily, through people paying attention and caring we keep improving the way these things are done. Through thermal imaging for example thousands of fawns are saved in farmers fields every year.

It’s a stark reminder of how harsh life can be, and our own responsibility to be careful. We have moved far from the natural world, and I hope we don’t forget to pay attention.

I quit my scientific post and moved back to Edinburgh, with a lot of questions still unanswered. It all went very fast. I got a job in the biomedical industry for which I was well qualified, and just like that, I had traded my dreams of academia for a corporate nine-to-five job.

Coming out of deep burnout, I needed the change of pace. I could leave work at work, I had a good salary and benefits, and I never needed to work long hours. For a year or two I convinced myself that was good enough.

I wasn’t happy, necessarily, though I felt like I shouldn’t complain. Yet something fundamental was missing. Despite developing treatments for rare genetic disorders – which on paper I thought should feel deeply meaningful – I felt like all I was doing was to feed a money-making machine. I wasn’t working on projects I had any say in. I felt detached from the world and the people I was supposedly doing this for. I was simply putting the hours in, collecting the paycheque, enriching shareholders, and going home. Rinse and repeat.

My soul was eroding. The fuel through which I’d powered my life and soul had been ambition, though it had also been that insatiable urge to prove myself that burnt me. But now the tank was empty; I had no reason, no drive – I felt more than bored.

I didn’t feel alive.

I was burning out all over again through lack of purpose. My brain still had some of its old patterns of course. It’s hard to move away from the idea that to live a meaningful life you have to do something grand that’ll leave a legacy. So I was questioning my every thought and feeling, thinking this is what a life of ‘enough’ looks like, and that I shouldn’t be ungrateful. I was afraid of reverting back to old patterns of proving myself.

But I slowly realised I wasn’t being true to myself and my own interests. I wasn’t learning, connecting, being creative, coming up with ideas and building upon them, all of which were things I used to enjoy. I began to sense that I needed to take some time to figure myself out. Maybe start writing again. But I was at the same time too afraid to give up the stability and safety I had built.

I was afraid of what it might mean to leave it all behind. Despite leaving academia, I was still doing science. There was still a small tether to my old dreams. Having spent fifteen years working for something, I didn’t want to just walk away. Would it mean I had wasted all of those years? The finality of leaving it all behind was terrifying.

The very idea felt like leaving all the safety of the shore behind, and casting off for the open sea with no idea what was in store. Maybe if I had remembered the words of Herman Melville I would have been able to do it earlier:

But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God- so better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety!

-Herman Melville, Moby Dick

I was too scared of facing the open seas – to perish in that howling infinite – and looked to the false safety of the lee shore for so long that I forgot how to be a human, free of mind and spirit.

I was in the third burnout of my life, living in beautiful Edinburgh, Scotland, without seeing the world around me. It felt like a shadow realm where nothing was enjoyable, and I had no desire to do any of the things that used to bring me joy. I didn’t spend much time outside; I didn’t read, nor socialise much; I wasn’t writing, or sailing, or being creative in any way.

But then – through some cosmic serendipity I still don’t fully understand – a fellow burnt out sailor at a local yard gave me his sailing boat. She was sitting neglected in the yard, slowly rotting away. Her name was Kismet, meaning destiny. It still seems too good to be true. I don’t believe in preordained destiny or interventionist higher powers influencing reality, though I’ll take a gift from the universe when it arrives.

She lit a faint spark in me. Slowly – through the soullessness and turgidity of my mind – ideas started forming, and ambition started returning. But not an ambition to prove myself. An ambition to do something honest for myself. To cast off and sail into the open seas, metaphorically and literally, to find a way back to myself. To find my lost soul, and to find my humanity again.

And with that ambition I started feeling more alive again. Alive to pursue curiosity and adventure. The plan that began forming was to learn to fix up Kismet, rebuild the diesel engine, and refurbish her entirely, and then set sail. Sail as far as I had to until life made sense again.

And I did. I restored that little boat and I sailed her around all of Scotland. I spent months with bleeding, oily knuckles rebuilding a rusted diesel engine, before cruising around ancient islands and anchorages with puffins and seals as neighbours.

It was creatively challenging, and conceptually exciting. But more than anything I had time to myself, working with my hands, immersed in difficult projects. And when we sailed, I was slowly transformed. I started sensing how the slow living – the attention I could pay to myself and my surroundings, and the closeness to the natural world – shifted my thoughts and perceptions.

I found the balance I needed between ambition and self worth. I see now that I can be ambitious still. But I don’t seek validation like I used to; instead I seek connection. This ambition is quieter, not as hungry. It doesn’t define my value anymore, it just fuels my love for the world and all that it holds.

Somewhere along the way I noticed I was no longer burnt out. I felt fulfilled and content. For once, I heard the world and the wild geese announcing my place in the family of things.

And now I can look back at my life and finally see that I have always been enough. I will always be enough.

Thank you for being here and reading. Sharing this story has been a raw and incredible experience, and I feel certain I’ll come back to it for myself when things ebb and flow in life, just to remind myself of where I’ve come from. I hope it can do the same for you.

I’m in the process of trying to publish my memoir covering my journey from burnout to sailing in detail, along with the circumnavigation of Scotland. If you want to follow along, please consider becoming a free subscriber by clicking the button below. Your support means the world to me.

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If you would like to support me and Kismet with a small donation you can join as a paid subscriber. You currently get 20% off an annual subscription.

https://www.alexandergunnarsson.com/JoinTheCrew

A note: The line “announcing your place in the family of things” is from the beautiful poem “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver.

Previous parts in this trilogy:

A PhD is a magnet to those of us who do well academically out of a desire to prove our worth. Academia is fuelled by the exploitation of insecurity.

Somehow, I got accepted into a highly prestigious molecular biology PhD program at Cambridge. Again, I felt the heady rush of validation. It didn’t reach the heights of getting into Cambridge the first time, but it still made me feel good. Until – yet again – it slowly faded to be replaced by uncertainty and anxiety.

I loved the creative aspects of my PhD, coming up with ideas, forming connections between concepts, writing outlines and finding shape in our world. It was like writing stories in many ways, deeply creative and rewarding in its own right. But on its own, it was not enough to sustain me. I was caught up in prestige, the idea of writing great scientific papers and delusional dreams of winning Nobel prizes.

Is that not the ultimate validation in the eyes of the world? In my heart of hearts I dreamt of that validation.

But when the reality of the long slow work of a PhD set in, that desire for recognition was not a strong enough driver to ward off the sense of failure. The dry day-to-day of science is the grinding away at results and failed experiments, and analysing half-baked data that amounts to nothing. Failure upon failure is an essential part of the process. But I compared myself to the successes around me. Someone was always doing better, publishing papers, having success. Their wins put my own failures in sharp relief.

I started feeling hopeless, like I was moving through treacle and getting nowhere. A malaise born out of comparison and high expectations. I hit a wall and in retrospect what I would now say was my first burnout. I felt inadequate. Not enough. I was horizontal on the couch, unable to work for months, a vicious cycle of feeling like shit for not doing enough, therefore too anxious to do any work, making me feel even more shit. It took the compassionate intervention of my supervisor to get out of it.

Through his non-judgemental help and unconditional acceptance I was slowly brought back. One of the things he said to me then started laying a foundation for things to come. He said: ‘The fact that you haven’t been able to do it means it couldn’t have been done.’

I forgave myself for failing. He helped me find joy in the work again and the excitement of learning and scientific creativity came back. I started writing my thesis, and in writing I flourished again. All the pieces fell into place as I wrote, and I managed to finish my PhD in a remarkable three years.

Again, the validation returned, giving me a burning drive to push higher, prove to myself that I could make it as a scientist. I was living the dream I had been harbouring for all those years. The dream of a twenty-year-old Alex with the world at his feet. I was a scientist, publishing papers, doing exciting work. So why did it not feel like I had succeeded? Why did I still not feel enough? The answer I came up with then was that it’s the reality: a PhD is a baby step, I’d have to do a postdoc, publish more prestigious papers, win scientific awards, maybe then it would feel like I have made it? I knew I wasn’t enough, because the scientific world told me so.

The answer I see now, looking back, is very different. There could never be an enough. I was chasing a ghost, an inadequacy within me that no amount of success could ever fill. But I didn’t know that.

That is the reality of academia, the scientific grind, fuelled by people like me, intent on proving their worth. For all the great achievements in the world, all the innovation, how many souls are burned, fuel to the neverending machine of constant progress, nothing ever enough?

After my PhD, in late 2020 the world was in lockdown, and I moved continents to pursue the next stage of my scientific career. You make whatever sacrifices you have to in pursuit of the dream, no matter the costs. I left my life in the UK, started doing long-distance with my partner of 7 years, and moved to a small US city in the middle of lockdown, far from family, friends, and my normal life.

In that profound isolation, compounded by a lack of progress at work, I began to spiral. Through many lonely nights of deep self-doubt I burnt my essence until nothing remained. I felt like a husk – a human without soul. In the dark depths of depression I lost my sense of self, feeling barely human. I was fragmented, disintegrating into shards of ideas, feelings and thoughts. I dreamt of escape, a hut in a forest or a boat upon the sea far away from it all. But my ambition, my insecurity wouldn’t let me leave. If I left… If I failed and didn’t make it in science I would be nothing. My whole identity, the foundation I’d created, would crumble. I was being crushed between ego and despair.

Unable to leave my house or even my bed, I felt like I was drowning in a sea of my own making.

At absolute rock bottom, feeling like I had no way out, I started therapy. I was becoming aware of the deep anxiety and insecurity within, built on a life of chasing validation. I had no idea how to navigate it and needed help.

Slowly we began shining a light into corners of my mind I had never dared look at. We started untangling a web of connected thoughts that I took to be objective reality, but were spectres and stories I had created. We started probing why I formed this way of viewing myself and the world; what it means to be a failure; how we define value. I still remember the question that slowly wormed its way into my mind, and changed the course of my life: Can you have value in absence of achievement? What’s your value to yourself? I remember my brain rejecting the premise, it made no sense. Value is based on what we do, was my simple, instinctive answer.

But the question stayed with me for months, a grating splinter in the back of my mind. One evening, as I stood looking at myself in the mirror – looking into my own eyes – a switch flipped. For a split second I saw myself from afar: a being consisting of trillions of living cells on a pebble in a small solar system, all made out of atoms forged in the hearts of stars, long dead. And it overwhelmed me in that second. Simply by existing we are enough, what else is there? We are parts of the universe like everything else, simple earthly beings. Existence is all we have to give ourselves, all we are, the only thing of value.

The feeling passed, but I had glimpsed something I had never before felt. An internal sense of worth, not based on external achievement.

It didn’t change a lifetime of patterns and emotions instantly, but it had opened the door. It allowed me to say enough is enough and recognise how depressed I was, alone in my desolate flat, fighting for a life that brought me such pain and misery.

Slowly, I accepted the idea that I could quit without losing who I was. The shift in mentality meant I could accept a different reality and begin the process of moving back home, to the UK, to my partner, and start living again.

But the questions that remained still weighed heavily. What now?

How do I give up on a dream and a career? How do I approach a life when I’m not striving and climbing, trying to make it? Is ambition always bad, should I not care at all? I had no answers, just an amorphous, terrifying future, but it glowed with a sense of hope.

Thank you for being here, and reading my words, witnessing my soul laid bare. It was through the help of others and their experiences that I realised there could be another way to look at things, so I hope sharing my experiences can help others.

Feel free to reach out with questions or comments here or through email or message, I’m always happy to answer and curious to learn.

Next week I will conclude this essay series with all that happened after I moved back to Edinburgh – trying to find my footing in a new career, burning out again despite it all – and eventually finding Kismet, the little boat that changed my life.

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Read part 3 here:

But where does it really begin? What’s the story of a life lived in pursuit of something so elusive, meaning and self worth? I could start at the very beginning, giving the details of growing up in Sweden, being the eldest child, the people pleasing from a young age – wanting everyone to like me in school and being conflict avoidant – and feeling a need to have top grades in every subject. But in some ways I think those things are a given prerequisite, and the heart of the journey can really be traced from the year before university.

My dream then was to become a scientist. I always loved the natural world, and loved learning about it through nature documentaries and school. The mechanisms of how life, Earth, and the universe all worked became a deep passion. I remember being ambitious too, wanting to do great things, dreaming of legacy, fame and achievements. About to turn twenty, I felt like the world was at my feet and I really liked the feelings ambition gave me: the sense of importance and meaning. It felt good to fight and strive for something, an ideal, a vision – to achieve. Somewhere within me I had a certainty that that was how you became a person who could be respected, a person who deserved their place in the world.

Those thoughts were deeply tangled roots, not something I was aware of. There was just this insidious feeling, sinewy and persistent, enmeshed in the whole structure: that I needed to be more than what I was; that I was not enough.

Sweden seemed too small for my ambition in many ways. So I decided to apply for universities in the UK, where better? Cambridge, Edinburgh, Imperial and UCL were my top choices, and if I didn’t get in, I’d stay in Sweden. Four choices, four versions of a future life all radically different. Who knows what each of those lives would have looked like? I only know the one I got. I’d thrown my hat into the ring and trusted destiny with my future.

Many months of revision and interviews followed, then the agonising wait for results. I was fretting, overthinking how the interviews went and what I said; I spent weeks pacing, updating the UCAS admissions portal several times a day.

Hoping.

Telling myself I didn’t care, whichever outcome would be fine, even though deep down I cared so much it felt like it took conscious effort to make sure all the atoms of my being stayed together without exploding.

Then the fateful day arrived. I remember it so vividly: sitting at my desk in my childhood bedroom, opening the email, shaking with nerves and then reading the line: Unconditional offer to study Natural Sciences at the University of Cambridge. I couldn’t believe it. I just started smiling – or laughing even – hopping around the room, little explosions of manic energy bursting out of me. It is to this day the most emotionally intense day of my life. But the real feeling underneath it all was not gratefulness or happiness. It was validation. I felt like all my doubts about myself, all the question marks, all the feelings of being an imposter evaporated with that single line. This was the evidence. This meant I was someone of worth, someone that mattered.

Again, all these feelings were undercurrents, undefined and unstated. I just felt this elation and joy as if everything was going to be alright from then on.

But of course it’s not so simple, when worth is derived externally.

I got to Cambridge, a Swede with no real understanding of the English schooling system, studying in a second language, a few years older than everyone else and with a less technically rigorous background.

And slowly doubt started slithering back, creeping in around the edges. Comparison started morphing the experience. Thoughts started telling me the things I’d used to feel, things like: I’m not quite good enough, I’m not up to scratch, there are so many others better than me, I’ll never make it. Everyone around me was sharper, more dedicated, had published papers, or knew how to code, or [fill in the blank here]. Ultimately, it didn’t matter what it was. All that mattered was that, yet again, that small insidious thought returned: I am not enough.

But my ambition remained strong, born out of a drive, a desperate longing to prove myself. I was at Cambridge after all. I would surely be enough eventually? All I needed to do was to keep climbing higher, keep achieving until one day the validation I felt when I got accepted to Cambridge would return. Right? And then I would finally be content and be able to feel like I mattered, that I deserved my place in this world.

This isn’t to say that my enjoyment of learning about the world was not genuine, or that I did not love my time at Cambridge. That deep curiosity was honest, pure and in many ways a love for the world and its underpinnings that still remains. But it was all tangled up in ambition. Being there, I defined my whole personality around science, around being intelligent. That was who I had to be, and only through success within that could I find validation in this world.

So after my undergraduate I was desperate to continue in science, to prove I had what it takes. I wanted to do a PhD. Surely if I got accepted for a doctorate, and completed it, published papers and became a real, respected scientist, surely then there would no longer be any doubt? Surely then I could finally feel like I was enough?

This is the first part of my road to burnout, and I’m sure you can see the potent ingredients brewing, the hold of breath before the spiral and collapse, as has happened for so many of us. I hope you tune in next week to see if the PhD really did solve all my problems…

Thank you for reading. Writing this has been in equal parts difficult and cathartic; I hope some of it resonates. Burnout is a multifaceted, complex slow death, and everyone’s road there is unique, but also shares many similarities.

If you enjoy my writing and want to support it please consider a free or paid subscription.

All of my writing is free to read, but it is sustained by the generosity of readers. If you’d like to support me, all new paid subscribers currently get 20% off here:

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Read part 2 here:

All of my writing here is completely free to read, but it is entirely sustained by the generosity of readers. If you’d like to support the journey, please consider subscribing for free, or upgrading to a paid subscription (£4/month or £35/year).

Alternatively, check out the Soulfaring shop and pick up a beautiful Scottish Fine Art Print from photos taken throughout my voyage. New paid subscribers get a 50% discount (value £19).

Thank you so much for being here and for supporting this journey.

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Introduction

About me and my publication Soulfaring.

Recovering from burnout through nature, writing, and a small sailboat

A letter of thank you to my subscribers, a welcome to new faces and gifts to new paid subscribers

Navigating the space between burnout, creative endeavours and the financial demands of life. Launching my Etsy Art Print Shop.

Nature Writing

Stories about belonging and finding connection to ourselves and the world, through sailing and the elements.

On finding deep connection with nature through the cadence of rivers

In which I dream of deep time and belonging as I sail to the Summer Isles

Reflections on our place in the world from the Isle of Skye

Memoir & Mental Health

Stories from the sea and my life about burnout, my sailing boat Kismet, and sailing her around Scotland to heal.

An exploration of the relentless pursuit of external worth

The cost of a PhD – losing yourself in pursuit of a dream – burnout

Quitting a corporate job and rebuilding a broken sailboat finally taught me what it means to be enough.

My unlikely journey into sailing, and how you could do it too.

Read the prologue for my memoir on the beauty and difficulties of being alone at sea

The transformative power of a passion project and the “free” boat that saved my soul

Poems

Lyrical poems about nature, mental health, belonging and the sea.

A prose poem on life, death and paying attention

A villanelle written as a companion piece to my essay The Soul of the Sea

An Ode to my sailing boat Kismet written in blank verse

Photography

A photo diary from a week of sailing and foraging off the coast of Scotland

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Thank you, thank you, thank you to all my new and old subscribers. It’s been an incredible, unexpected, transformational month. I can’t thank you all enough for supporting my writing. It’s almost hard to believe. At the start of June I had around 20 subscribers — now we are approaching 150. When I started writing here it was an unthinkable number. That’s a decent size auditorium full of people. Together we could fully crew an 18th century merchant ship!

The interactions with all of you over the last month have been nourishing, heartfelt, engaging, and interesting. I feel like I have had the chance to talk to most of you, and if I haven’t yet, I look forward to soon. I try to read and comment on what you publish and love the conversations it generates, and the life insights you have provided me with. And I love the generous, deep comments you have left on my essays. It’s been a gift talking to you all and getting to know you. It feels like a community here. A community of people who observe, feel deeply, and appreciate each other and the world, even though (or maybe because) we have faced difficult times.

The gratitude and joy of seeing something I wrote loved and quoted because it has connected with your experiences can’t be described, you are all so kind and generous. Thank you.

A Welcome to New Faces

There are many new people here, around 80 from last week alone. Thank you for joining, and a very warm welcome to Soulfaring.

Briefly about me: I am Alexander, a biomedical scientist-turned-writer based in Edinburgh, Scotland. A year ago, I walked away from my research career due to burnout and rebuilt an old, broken sailboat (named Kismet). Then we navigated the ancient, beautiful Scottish West Coast, finally unshackled. Ultimately the whole journey was a way for me to get to know myself again.

This writing journey is the extension of that exploration, of recovering from burnout, mourning the loss of a dream career, falling back in love with the world by getting closer to nature and myself through sailing.

And now I’m on a sabbatical of sorts. When I quit my job due to burnout my only plan was to sail and write until my savings ran out. I have written a memoir (of which I have shared excerpts here) which will be published one way or another, and I launched this Substack to see if anyone would be interested in my story of navigating burnout, rebuilding a sailing boat, sailing around Scotland and reconnecting with myself and nature. And it turns out these things resonate, and I’m incredibly grateful.

Launching Voluntary Paid Subscriptions (no paywalls)

I want to keep writing. It has done something in my soul that I can’t quite explain. For the first time I feel like I am exactly where I want to be. Even if it stops here, with the current subscriber count, just all of us together, this is what I will keep doing. Writing essays, working on books and engaging with this wonderful community.

But if I could do it part time, or (dare I even say it out loud?) full time, it would be a dream. So I’m turning on a paid subscription option. All my writing will be fully available to all subscribers as always. Everyone will be able to comment and engage, I’m not locking my writing behind a paywall. I’m simply turning on the option for a subscription IF you would like to support my work financially, and if you feel my writing has given you something and you want to subscribe to enable me to keep doing it the way I have been until now.

I don’t have much to offer except my writing and amateur photography. But I’ll try to make it worth your trust in me.

The subscription options are as follows:

Monthly: £4

Annual: £35 (£2.91 per month)

Founder: £200

A note for mobile app readers: If you upgrade directly inside the app, there may be additional platform fees. To get the cheapest £4/£35 pricing, subscribe through a web browser instead! Either way, you get full access to everything, and you support me equally.

Subscriber Perks

At the cost of a coffee you’ll support my writing on Substack as well as my books, and additionally you’ll get access to a paid subscribers chat called The Captain’s Quarters on Substack. The idea is for it to be a day-to-day chat where we can have a dialogue as if we were hanging out on Kismet. Within the chat are the following rooms:

• The Ship’s Library is a space to have discussions on the books we are currently reading.

• The Lounge is a place for a tea or a dram of whisky and a chat about life.

• The Navigation Desk is for discussions on the day-to-day work behind our writing projects and trying to get them published.

A paid subscription directly supports my writing. To express my gratitude for helping me keep doing this there are some additional early bird perks for those who subscribe first:

• The first 100 paid subscribers will (if they wish) be acknowledged in my book.

• The first 20 paid annual subscribers will additionally get 3 months comped (added) as a thank you gift for your support and belief in me.

The £200 Founder subscription would hugely support my work, and my gratitude to anyone who chooses it will be boundless. You will officially be part of Kismet’s crew. You have an open invitation to get out on Kismet (conditions permitting) if you are ever in Edinburgh. You will get an acknowledgement in my book as a thank you for your incredible support, and a Kismet-centred welcome package.

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Looking Ahead

I write every week, and post daily notes. All fully human made with flaws and errors aplenty, completely AI free. You can look forward to posts every Saturday about:

• Sailing, travelling and nature writing, reconnecting with nature and appreciating the slow pace of water, our place on earth, and all the beautiful creatures we share it with.

• My scientific career and how I burnt out.

• How I navigate mental health, burnout and motivation.

• Stories, books and art that inspire and make us appreciate life on a deeper level.

• Poems

And I’m sure there will be more things. For every week I write a post, I get five new ideas. Eventually I may even get around to posting about the novels I’ve been working on for years.

So thank you again for reading, for your support and for participating in this community. This feels like the beginning of something.

Fair winds,

Alexander and Kismet

The Soul of the Sea

I look out across the water from the shores of the Firth of Forth as the tide rushes in, filling the Forth with the icy North Sea. The water is opaque, unknowable, made almost obsidian by the heavy clouds, reflecting off the waves. The harbour, lined with wood, rock and black iron, is a gateway into the unknown. I stand on the brink and ponder what is to come, of entering this wild abyss. My own soul is lost to me, eroded by burnout, hollowed out by trying to contort myself to fit a life that is not for me. Maybe at sea I can find a way to rejuvenate it; perhaps if I get to know the soul of the sea, I will find a way back to myself as well.

So out towards the abyss I bear. With heavy thuds I walk down the slipway, gazing down at my feet. With every step my determination grows, as I leave my old life behind for what the sea has in store. I leap aboard Kismet, my trusted, seaworthy little ship, spurning land-based life. The strong breeze whips ropes and canvas as I set the sails, just outside the mouth of the harbour. The texture of the sea is like my thoughts: dark and foreboding.

The tide turns and brings us with it, out towards the North Sea. Eventually my mind goes silent, filled with the movements of wind and waves. The salty spray runs down my hair, stinging my eyes as I fight with rudder and sails, navigating the churning water. I clasp the wood-grained, weathered tiller handle with white knuckles, keeping us just in control as we are tossed by steep waves. The chaotic sea is vicious, straining against us, not letting us in.

I sail through moonless nights, and thick fog, unseeing, into another world. A world of myth and legend. In the dark, unseen shapes move just beyond the edge of my vision. Swirling spectres. I cannot tell if these shadows are from the unknown depths, or from my own mind. Through the dark and fog I sail until I reach the gateway to the ancient west. A world of elemental powers: water, air and earth. The treacherous soul of the sea still eludes me. Overnight the storms ease and shards of deep blue, dotted with faint stars, break through the heavy sheets of cloud.

The passage opens up before me, a great glen – a deep murky loch, bordered by weary mountains. In its dark depths, an ancient leviathan lies waiting. I set off before the break of dawn, as the creature lies sleeping, careful not to disturb her. I sail quietly, crouched down in my boat, avoiding looking over the edge into the black deep. The surface barely stirs as we glide in light winds. As the sun rises I see the distant shore, a break in the mountains. We make it through the mythic passage, Kismet and I.

In the west, surrounded by snow-capped mountains and deep sea lochs, something in the air shifts. I begin to hear the whispers of the ancient mountains, and the low rumbling voice of the sea. But they are still too faint, drowned out by my own mind. I sail past verdant isles, through narrow sounds in the shadow of jagged peaks, still searching.

Then before me approaches another trial, a boiling cauldron of water. A ship-swallowing maelstrom of legend. The Corryvreckan. The waters surge and rumble as the fierce currents thrash, a ferocious river at sea. One misstep and we drift into the chaotic gaping depths of this ancient force, empowered by the heavens. I struggle and force the tiller as I am pulled and pushed around the roaring waters, but to no avail. I am unable to control Kismet. As we are pulled ever closer to the deep thundering abyss I hear another voice ringing through the roaring water. I listen closely to the voice of the sea and the still whisper of the wind. And they tell me where to go. They guide me to the safe eddies and currents that carry us past danger.

As I reach the safe waters past this hurdle, I look out at the remote, untouched world towards the horizon. Beyond these gates all time exists as one, there is no past, no present, no future, but all here together, intertwined. As I sail, I start seeing and hearing the hum of all the different strands of time, resonant in the textures, scents and colours of this place. I become attuned to the sea, sensing its eternal, ever-moving soul, that ebbs and flows, hearing its ancient voice. Within it echoes the voice of mountains, creatures, ice and fire. A voice that sustains and also deprives. That has existed for aeons and will remain, beyond the edge of time.

Out here her voice is loud and clear. My mind eases into the rhythm of it. The winds and waves carry us with ease, as I begin to understand their cadence. I spend my days communing with water and wind, a being no longer shackled but made free. I stand upon the bow of Kismet taking it all in, as we glide together over glassy seas, accompanied by creatures that also know the soul of the sea, the sleek dolphins jumping through waves, the curious seals observing from afar, the great basking shark slowly cruising the surface, and the myriad of birds surfing invisible currents.

I remain immersed in this world until the seasons change – until the temperature drops and the voice of the sea grows cold and harsh, and the wind biting. The time comes to turn back home. Winter’s dark already begins to set in the early evenings. Cold, clear air reveals the cosmos, beyond sea, earth and air.

I sail more urgently, pushed on by eager winds, fearful of winter’s claws. I face unseen dangers all around, sharp rocks and whirlpools; dangerous currents and stormy capes. But I still listen to the quiet voices, and the sea sends me her guides to help me navigate. The lost souls of ancient mariners show me the way, their bewinged forms now soaring through air. The knowing dolphins lead me past the treacherous rocks, gliding gracefully in grey seas.

Through wind and rain I sail, past the wrathful cape, stormy and remote; past the treacherous Swelkie, faceless and churning, until once again I spot the outline of a familiar place. The welcome embrace of the Firth of Forth. Of home. As I enter the gates of the Forth – sailing past guarding gannets – a pale autumn sun welcomes me onto cerulean waters. I reach the wooden docks in the light of the setting sun, and say farewell to the sea, thanking her for helping me find a way back. I say farewell to Kismet too, my bewinged vessel. As I take my first steps back on land, back towards another life, she sits perched on the water, wings folded, resting peacefully. I return to shore made whole, a being of earth and water, finally belonging.

Thank you very much for reading. If you enjoyed this, love nature writing and are as interested as I am in the richness and the soul-healing that comes from being out at sea or amongst mountains, please subscribe below to join the community and receive the weekly newsletter..

There is now an option of a voluntary paid subscription. None of my writing will be locked behind paywalls, but if you enjoy what I do and want to support it so that I can keep writing, and keep Kismet afloat, a paid subscription is greatly appreciated.

As a thank you, paid members get access to the Captain’s Quarters (our private community chat) and a welcome package.

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Note: All photos by me unless otherwise stated

If you missed my companion poem that goes with this essay you can read it here:

This story is part of a set of themed essays around nature and finding belonging. You can read the other essays here: